


But Now I See

by ChocoKat



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Ghiralink - Freeform, Introspection, Legend of Zelda - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29650791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoKat/pseuds/ChocoKat
Summary: Link ponders. Ghirahim is charmed by the way the sky child thinks.
Relationships: Ghirahim/Link (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	But Now I See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aperplexingpuzzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aperplexingpuzzle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Blind, But Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456671) by [aperplexingpuzzle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aperplexingpuzzle/pseuds/aperplexingpuzzle). 



> Based ENTIRELY off of @ aperplexingpuzzle's fanfic Blind, But Now! I love that fic so damn much, I am eternally waiting with utmost patience for the day it updates again. I really hope that you all like this little ficlet, it hardly compares, but I wanted to explore Link's thoughts and feelings about the recent happenings a bit more. Also, obvious warning for spoilers for BBN!

Those hands are cold. So very cold, and the shiver elicited is one of uncertain origin. The frigid touch of the other man's skin, or the trepidation such lazy traces of fingers brought. Sightless eyes stare ahead at what he believes, hopes is Ghirahim-- and he doesn't need to see in that moment. For many reasons; one of which being the very essence of the demon in his grasp, a harbinger of feelings he isn't sure he enjoys or despises. But that smirk glows from his features. The demon is a weapon, physically and mentally. Like a parasite he writhes his way beneath Link's skin and lodges himself firmly, sheathed like the very sword that comprised his being.  
His existence. But writhing is beneath Ghirahim, Link thinks. And so is he. 

Within seconds the boy finds himself sprawled, back to the mattress and head laid delicately across his pillow at the headrest. It confuses him, such tenderness. What does Ghirahim have to gain from the motions, when Link would never trust him as far as he could throw him? What sort of intricately tangled subterfuge was the demon intending to weave?

The strings of fate were strange in that way. They overlapped at every turn-- that much he would know, having once seen them. But never were they clear in their meaning and foreboding implications of the future. Link had to stifle the grunt when Ghirahim's weight settled over top of him, feather light, before he sank into the boy with a pulsating thrum palpable enough to slice through. Intimacy, Link realizes. The sound tapers into a sigh as icy fingers cradle his wrists, bringing them up, above his head, before they pause and change course. 

A panicked flutter disturbs the linings of his ribs. "Ghirahim," He manages. A weak gasp. 

Ghirahim shushes him. His fingertips, their pads swirled and callused, they brush porcelain skin. 

Tempered glass, he can almost hear the tinkling ambience. And then he hears chirping. The low drone of cicadas, crickets, screeching into the darkness that had forever pierced Link's eye. The sound encroaches on his mindscape, and suddenly the bed feels hard and stiff beneath him, and he swears up and down he hears a rustling from up, up, up--

"I am here, sky child." Mutters that voice. He nearly heaves. "Breathe, Link."

The words strike a chord. Familiarity, welcoming. He clings like a lifeline to the reassurance. Letting it guide him back to solid ground with a gentle flourish, similarly to the trusted sailcloth he carried. Link shudders back to life.

"Touch me." Ghirahim says. He sounds firm, but patient. He still holds Link's arms.

Link trembles. Quavers like a newly hatched Loftwing, taking first flight. He raises his hands again, fingers outstretched in probing tentativeness, palms open. Ghirahim waits for him.

His mouth feels dry. His stomach empty and filled simultaneously. Head brimming with cloying cotton. He feels nausea swirl at the base of his skull when his fingers touch down. It is still Ghirahim; from the unnaturally sharp angles of his visage to the mismatched ears, diamond dangling from one of which. The demon does not move, his stillness almost statuesque. If Link had not known, for the lack of beating heart, that Ghirahim was a living being... he may have mistaken him for mere artistry. For a sculpture of perfection. Link is reminded of the wooden carving that waited shoved in the drawer of his desk for the light of sun. Could such flawless, articulated precision be mocked? Rebranded, made again? With or without sight could the idealized image of Demise's desire be recreated? Such thoughts feel silly, in the grand scheme of things. They do not matter. But everything that once mattered, to himself and the goddess both, were now far gone. Over, in the blink of an eye, it felt like. Link smells the iron on Ghirahim's breath, and he lets it clasp around him in cumbersome shackles. Ghirahim is a death sentence. A sword, but Link meets him half-way. They parry and thrust and dance upon the battlefield to a song of their own making. Ghirahim's poised grace is the perfect juxtaposition to his own brutish instinct. But admitting such would confirm his greatest of fears-- Link and Ghirahim were one in the same. 

Forged in heavenly light, chthonic darkness, both strung like puppets, pieces upon a chessboard, for the greater purpose of those that would use them to meet their own ends. And in the end... neither were they thanked or relieved of their mighty burdens. Demise and the goddess Hylia both were cruel masters, one of which knew divine justice, peace, and the other ruthless ambition for power, revenge. But both still held the weak in the palms of their mighty hands. Link would be forever in her service for his lifetime, and then the next, and so forth.

By choice or not. His distaste, dare he say dread for such a curse, he would have liked to say it came to fruition only when Demise shared with him the curse upon his bloodline, and on Zelda's, to meet him in battle time and time again. But he knew better than that. Ghirahim held his mind in a vice. Like pulling said strings of fate itself, he whispered contradictions to his convictions of the goddess and his best friend, the woman chosen as her vessel. Ghirahim made him doubt his loyalty. Crave self-servience. What kind of hero did that make him? 

“A mortal one,” Interjects that voice again, sounding vexed. Ghirahim glares daggers. Fitting of his blade. 

Both Link and Zelda can hardly draw the line between herself, and the encroaching power and memories of the goddess. Their relationship… Link doesn't know where to begin mending it. Like the rips ever-present in his sailcloth, the divide between seams could only be sewn so many times. It was with dawning horror that he realized he didn't want to. Zelda refused to take his word. Would she ever, after that series of stunts with the sword containing the demon lord? Anger bubbled in his chest.  
Perhaps if she had taken his vow at face value, those stunts would not have been necessary. 

Such sacrilege, to both his friend and his goddess, they would never have come to fruition to begin with. But how could he blame her? Ghirahim… he was a being of chaos and malignance. 

He stirred violence and bloodshed wherever he so desired, for centuries longer than recorded by Hylian textbooks. It was within his moral coding, imbued in the very metal flesh that composed his body. Ghirahim was, from a moral standpoint, evil. 

But who was to say that Link, or Zelda, were good? All he had been through to get here. 

All of his selfish doubting and pondering and wishing… that didn't feel heroic, or divine.

It was all just another test. Like dangling a string before a Remlit, then yanking it out of reach. He was never meant to have what he wanted-- it would only be, as Zelda revealed to him, used as incentive. The promise of sight was never something he foolishly pined for. He resigned himself to being forever in the dark, by his lonesome. He almost found peace in it. 

If not much else, he had this. A realization dawned upon him then. 

Was this once more another trial? Had the goddess led him purposefully to the demon lord, to determine his will? Did Hylia doubt his loyalty, even after all he had pledged, all that had been sacrificed? His gut ran cold, plunged into frigid waters of doubt and confusion.

Couldn't he just have his way-- just this once? Link did not ask for much. He never did. He gave, always pushing for more, for that intone of a smile in Zelda's voice. For Groose to stop harassing Fledge. For the fate of the world itself. Was that not enough? What was this for? 

Was Ghirahim just another means of securing his unfettered servitude?

"What are you thinking?" The voice of Ghirahim cuts through his thoughts.

"...Too much." Link says. Ghirahim huffs.

"You will hurt yourself that way, sky child."

If only the demon lord truly knew. Link smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rude.”

He can hear the delighted tinkling of Ghirahim’s laughter. “Was I ever not?”

The smile widens. But it fades, slowly falling from his expression as he remembers the things on his mind. It's simply too much to just ignore. His own best friend turned against him, the sword of his greatest enemy casually lounging about his bedroom, everyone on Skyloft questioning his sanity-- well, he couldn’t exactly come back to these things at a later time. He needed to address them now. But perhaps he could make more pressing matters, to replace the majority.

Link remembers the position of his hands. Pressed to Ghirahim’s face, cool and smooth as marble. It reminds him of dipping into the waterfall. Of eating stamina fruit on the hotter days in Skyloft. He swallows, and he moves. His palms rest on Ghirahim’s cheeks. Fingertips roam gently, sliding into the dip beneath tireless eyes, the seam between eye socket and cheekbone. 

Thumbs trail the narrow bridge of a long, sloping nose. Up they go, working over the skin before meeting thin eyelids, lashless and cold. Ghirahim doesn’t feel human. He’s… human-shaped. 

No pulse, no eyebrows, lashes, warmth. He has nothing to show for his deceitful appearance.

“Having fun?” Asks that voice. Link doesn’t reply. He keeps going instead. He has to. 

That diamond carved in his cheek. It doesn't make sense. But what about the demon lord has ever made sense? The torn ear… Link purses his lip, but doesn't ask, despite the palpable curiosity he gives. Instead he pulls away, fulfilled enough by the mental image he was painting in his head of the weapon. 

"Unsurprising you would wish to witness my beauty once more. I'm just impressed it took you this long to indulge the desire."

Link huffs a laugh. "Don't get too big-headed. Your balance will be thrown off."

“It already is, in your uncivilized hands.” Ghirahim retorts seamlessly. 

“Implying you’d prefer them any other way?” Link says, before realizing. His ears burn.

Ghirahim smirks. He doesn’t need to see it to know. It shows perfectly in his voice.

“Oh, you remembered. What a sweet, but useless sentiment. Just like this whole ordeal.”

“We can dance around the subject of destiny all day, Ghirahim. How about we don’t?”

A scoff. “Is that not what you wanted? To talk about your feelings? Since you can’t let them go.”

“It’s--” What. Not that simple? Complicated? “I can’t,” he finally concedes. Ghirahim goes quiet.

The demon isn’t well versed on the petty, insignificant matters of Hylians, the tribulations of their day to day existence. So far as he is aware, they are created discontented, and they stay that way, no matter the circumstances. They can’t ‘make do’ with the life tasked to them. 

“Why not.” He says. Never a question, because he knows. 

Ghirahim is not omniscient, but he has been ‘alive’ for eons beyond the little Hylian’s comprehension. He knows how they function. And he knows, for the most part, what makes Link tick. He prefers his solitude, and Ghirahim can concede that they have this in common. 

Link seems to know this too. He doesn’t answer for a long while. Ghirahim is content with this. 

Feelings were never his forte. But nevertheless, it makes him curious. He finds himself thirsting for such information, for more, more about this interesting Hylian. He knows so little, and yet knows the hero’s story like it were his own. But where does that get him? It's just the sad fate they have shared, potentially for eons to come. But that almost sounds… enjoyable, somehow. 

How masochistic of him. Link finally speaks, and his voice comes hoarse, scratchy in his throat.

“... I can’t because… even if I let them go, nothing will change. I’ll just be complacent.” 

Consideration colors the demon’s face. Not that Link would notice. But the air shifts. 

Link realizes Ghirahim has pulled away. Leaving a sensation of cold in his wake. 

“I’ve seen complacency, sky child. You exhibited it before, when you were her highness’ loyal dog.” 

Link scrunches his nose. Not because Ghirahim is wrong, but because he hates to imagine it.

A time when his own fate felt like a ribbon slipping through his fingertips, torn by the wind.

“... I know,” he grumbles, leaning back in his bed once more. It cushions him. 

“But,” Ghirahim remarks. Link’s ear twitches. “You have grown since then. You are stronger.”

Ghirahim moves from the mattress. It shifts with the loss of weight. “Your spirit has become…”

A pause. Link waits with trepidation. But Ghirahim starts again, having second thoughts, apparently.

“Your fate is your own, Link. Take it. Grasp it, and never let go.” Ghirahim says, voice firm.

He quickly adds, sensing doubt, “Your precious Zelda cannot make you.”

Link turns over, fingers curling into the sheets as he faces the wall. He can feel it looming.

“And what about her? It isn’t like… I don’t know, I don’t still love her. She’s my friend, Ghirahim.”

A roll of the demon’s eyes that goes unseen. Probably for the better, really. 

“Yes, but to my knowledge, a ‘friend’ does not restrain another and hold him hostage against his will.”

“...” Link frowns. “She did what she thought was best,” He says. Ghirahim makes an irritated noise.

“There you go again. Defending your beloved goddess at any cost. Don’t you see she is flawed?”

Ghirahim hisses it. Link can almost feel the way his tongue curls pointedly around each syllable.

“You will vouch for her time and time again. But when has she ever done such for you?”

Link sits up again. But a hand pushes at his shoulder, holding him down. Every instinct says to fight. But instead, he freezes. He feels the breath of a forge fan over his cheeks, his lips. 

“Am I not your ‘friend’ as well, Link? Does what I say not matter to you?” Uttered venomously.

He is let go. Ghirahim retreats, and the following silence leaves Link to presume his companion entered the sword that houses the demon. But when he reaches out, a soft cape greets him.

“...Ghirahim,” he mutters. The silence remains. Link huffs, standing up now. He moves around.

“Ghirahim. You are my friend.” The air grows tenser yet. He ignores it. “I just-- I never thought…”

A hand runs through his hair, exasperated. “I never thought you’d care for that kind of thing.”

“Of course I don’t.” Ghirahim snarls. Link reaches out, finding a hand, cold as steel, clutching. 

“... But I do,” he whispers. Ghirahim seems to consider. Before their hands enclose. 

“You Hylians and your sentimentality. Such weakness would have you slain.” 

Link smiles. “You haven’t brutally slaughtered me yet. So I must be doing something right.”

“Yes… perhaps you are,” muses the demon. And link feels something bump his forehead.

“... Rest, now. You will need your strength in the coming battle.” Ghirahim says, quiet.

“Battle?” Link inquires. He couldn’t imagine fighting Zelda. Not in any context. Yet here they were. 

“Our days are numbered. Let us spend them in peace.” Ghirahim guides him now. Link follows.

Back onto the bed they go. The softness cushioning. Warmth encompassing. 

His eyes are heavy. Ghirahim holds him. “I’m sorry,” Link utters, stifling a yawn that invokes tears.

“Sleep.” 

So he does.


End file.
